When the Sky Fell
by M. Rykov
Summary: April, 1975. The Vietnam War has drawn to a close and the Fall of Saigon is upon them; there's nothing left to do but run.
1. April 29, 1975

Hey, all!

Okay, so since I haven't updated lately I thought I'd gift you with the first chapter of a short multi-chapter fic. So this is it. Seeing how this is the last fic I'm writing for 2014, consider it a special New Years Eve gift.

So now get ready to be bombarded with historical facts and strained accuracy! This story takes place at the very end of the Vietnam War in 1975 during the infamous Evacuation of Saigon (if you've seen _Miss Saigon_, you might be very familiar with this event). What was basically happening was that the city of Saigon was left mostly untouched by the war, however the Northern Vietnamese (aka, the people the USA was fighting against) were marching to Saigon to get to the National Palace, the seat of power. No one wanted to be around when the Northerners came, so literally thousands of Vietnamese gathered outside the American Embassy to try and get a way out of the country. I tried to keep everything as accurate as I possibly could-it took a crap-ton of research, but I think the finished result made it all worth it. Seriously, this whole evacuation was a complete mess, so if you get confused, believe me, no one will judge.

There will be future UsUk in later chapters, so if you don't like that pairing, now's the time to back out. Also, I apologize profusely if I screw it up. I'm not a romance writer, so bear with me.

So, with that in mind, here is my last fic update of 2014. Happy New Years, everybody!

-M. Rykov

* * *

_April 29, 1975_

* * *

**10:00 A.M.**

The sweltering heat seared across Alfred's back, making his shirt sticky with sweat, plastering it to his skin. He ran about the compound, coming to a standstill at an office door that hung ajar. Alfred stumbled past the overturned chair and scattered papers and glanced out, watching the crowd swarming at the gates of the Embassy, ramming into the sealed gates like blind flies. Soldiers perched on the top of the walls were offering their hands to a select few individuals, hauling them across the way to safety as each new Southern Vietnamese was ushered into the lower floor of the compound. The frantic laps and wheezes of wild wind slapped against the dusty ground, spraying Marines in layers of sand and dirt.

The Northern Vietnamese were marching into the city. Saigon was surrounded. There was no where left to run. The people had lapsed into panic once it became clear that the city—relatively untouched by the war—would fall to the Northerners. They had speedily packed their belongings into purses and pillowcases, tugging at their children's arms with such brute force they looked like oversized rag dolls, stomping over the streets to get to the Embassy for hopes that they would be allowed to build new lives for themselves in the States. Evacuations were being organized, and while Alfred was one of the primary people of importance, thousands of staff members and Southern Vietnamese that had proved to be liable assets to the American effort were waiting their turns.

Chaos reigned out there. The sun had driven them to madness, and they begun to throw themselves against the gate to get in. As much as it pained him, he knew that those gates could not risk getting beaten down. The flood would break, and with that, all half-hearted organization would be lost. Alfred removed his glasses, streaked with grime, and rubbed his eyes.

_God, what a mess. _

"Captain Jones!" A young Marine who looked like he belonged in high school popped his head into the boiling office, startling Alfred. "We need your assistance behind the Chancery building."

Alfred immediately took from the window and followed the young man down the hall in a quick jog. "What's going on?"

"There isn't room for the CH-53's on the roof. Lieutenant Colonel Kean has called for his Marines to chop down some trees in the Chancery's parking lot so that they have a suitable place to land."

They burst through the door and into the parking lot, the frantic echoes of civilians locked outside the compound immediately meeting their ears. The lot itself was a slab of burning asphalt, crackling under the scorching heat. Civilian cars mingled with military convoys, Marines scrambled around howling orders at one another, the panic slowly beginning to take center stage. As Alfred could see, some of the trees that bordered the lot had already been toppled over; men were dragging them by their roots and branches, throwing them aside to clear the new impromptu landing zone. Those brandishing electric saws sliced through the slender trunks and stood back as the willowy masses rushed to meet the ground. They were sprinting from tree to tree, hardly taking notice if anyone had been caught beneath one.

Lieutenant Colonel Jim Kean, the designated leader of the evacuation, rushed up to Alfred, red in the face and too hurried to salute. "Jones, good you're here. Move some of these vehicles, would you?"

"Yes, sir." Alfred immediately sprung to action, pushing his damp hair back from his eyes as he and a small group of Marines went to work shoving at a small vehicle, a simple white car that probably belonged to some poor bastard who worked at the Chancery.

"Wait a sec!" one of the older Marines shouted. He slung his rifle off his shoulder and gave no word of caution when he slammed the butt of his gun into the driver's window. Glass spurted from the frame like blood from a wound, scattering around their feet in glistening shards.

The men around him yelled in surprise, accusing that he could have at least warned them before he nearly poked their eyes out.

"If we don't put these fuckers in neutral it's gonna be a bitch to move them!" the Marine shouted over the commotion. Alfred glanced at his uniform, catching the name _Sawyer_ embroidered against the mud-caked fabric. Sawyer ducked his head into the car and cursed.

"_Shit_. Any of you know how to drive stick?" Alfred knew how, but he felt that his strength would be better suited to pushing rather than being at the wheel. Luckily, a few men raised their hands. Sawyer nodded. "Great, how about you guys take two men with you and push the rest of these bastards out of the way, yeah?"

The group broke off into tiny sects around the parking lot, spreading like insects as they stuck to vehicles like bees to honey. Alfred remained with Sawyer and the young man who had summoned him earlier. Apparently, the younger Marine knew how to drive a stick shift, clambering into the car and effortlessly putting it in neutral. Once the tires loosened and the car was liable to move, Alfred and Sawyer pushed at it from the back. Other men followed in suit, heaving them around the lot and away from all the movement. The effort had made Alfred hotter, his hair sticking to his forehead and his chest burning with every mouthful of air.

Sawyer, just as short of breath, nodded as they pressed the vehicle against the far south side of the lot. "Okay, next one."

And on they all went to the next car.

* * *

**12:00 P.M.**

It took about two hours for the lot to be substantially cleared, pushing and shoving at these bodies of lugging metal and crushing them up against one another like scrap metal. The noon sun had reached its blistering center point in the sky, buzzing whirs from the electric saws rode the air like bees, circling Alfred's dizzy head as his heart sped and pounded painfully against his ribs. By the time they were pushing aside their last car, the muscles in Alfred's arms were screaming in protest, aching and sore, taut and cramping. He let out a loud breath as he and Sawyer managed to press the car in a heap on the outer circle of the parking lot. The sun beat down on them mercilessly.

"Piece of cake, right?" Sawyer laughed breathlessly, rolling up the sleeves of his sweat-soaked uniform. "Thanks, man."

Alfred struggled to take in air. "No problem."

Sawyer ran off to join the other Marines as they chopped down trees and hauled them aside. Alfred approached Kean; the man was sweating buckets.

"Now what, Lieutenant Colonel?"

Kean gestured wearily to the blinding sky. "Some Hueys are supposed to be coming down on the rooftop. They're dropping off evacuees from all over points of the city."

"Right, but at what time?"

Kean shook his head. "Don't know. Apparently Ambassador Martin didn't allow the helicopter evacuations until 10:51, so who knows how long it'll take for General Carey to get them here."

Alfred was in disbelief. "You mean you think the orders are _barely_ getting to Carey?"

"I don't know, Jones. I really don't."

"But it's already _noon_, and those people are pushing at the gates out there!" Alfred pointed in the direction of the flooding crowd hording just outside the Embassy. "They're crushing each other to death to try and get it, you really think those gates are gonna hold them off any longer?"

"It's not my fault that the orders are being sent so late, Jones," Kean bit irritably. "You think I don't know that people are trampling over themselves to try to break their way in? There's very little I can do."

"Okay, but can't we at least help out a few more families?" Alfred said, softer this time in an attempt to keep Kean's good spirit. "I mean, there's little kids out there, sir—"

"I _know_, Jones. I know…" Kean turned his head to spit on the boiling asphalt. "…But we can't save all of Vietnam. Hueys aren't meant to carry so much weight."

"Fine, but what about the Sea Knights? Or the CH-53s? Those carry a lot more weight, right?"

Kean sighed impatiently. "We'll save who we can, captain. I can promise you that." He turned his head to the sound of the screaming civilians just beyond the walls, held back only by a fence of creaking metal. "For now, all we can do is wait."

* * *

**3:00 P.M.**

Over the past few hours, just as Kean had promised, Hueys had dropped off a few evacuees and flew off to the Embassy. Marines had to reassure them that they were indeed set to leave Vietnam and that helicopters weren't circulating them to the source of impeding danger just to keep up a well-constructed ruse.

For all the Hueys that looped the skies, there were still no signs of the CH-53s. Alfred tsked crossly.

_Looks like Ambassador Martin was slow on the uptake after all. _

He had considered taking shelter back in the Embassy, but it was bursting at the seams with people. Frankly, Alfred was warm enough to know that if he was to go squeezing in between crowds now he would pass out from heat stroke.

"So why did Martin send Carey the order so late?" Alfred asked Kean, who had been barking out orders to a few Marines to find some luminous paint to draw a big _H_ on the lot's asphalt. It was to alert the incoming helicopters of the new landing zone and it was not to be delayed.

"He wanted to see the damage for himself," he responded gruffly, wiping the sweat from his upper lip. "He didn't believe that Saigon was as bad as it is."

Alfred snorted. "_Wow_."

Kean looked to Alfred grimly. "The man is only trying to keep us together…"

The Motorola Walkie Talkie that he kept clutched in his hand crackled. Kean tuned it and spoke down into it, a grainy voice coming through the coarse speaker in a rapid twine. Alfred couldn't make out the speech over the commotion, and before he could ask, Kean was already starting back towards the Embassy. "Excuse me; I've got to get up to the roof."

"What for?"

"The first waves of birds are coming through, so get everyone ready."

At that, Kean disappeared into the Embassy doors, a loud cacophony of blaring phones, shrieking voices, and crying children exhaled from the building as soon as the door opened. Alfred could _feel_ the body heat from the room, and the sudden waft only made him lightheaded.

Alfred and a few other Marines who had heard Kean's order began to disperse, gathering their men and shouting out orders for them to ready themselves. The hard part was only beginning.

Feeling that he should help with guiding the helicopters, Alfred decided to brave the heat of the indoors and make his way up to the roof. The moment he entered the Embassy, he was met with a frantic cluster of people. Vietnamese men and women heaved their way through the crowd, children shrieked for their lost mothers as they held pillowcases filled with ragged clothes, Embassy staff wove in and out of the crowd, gathering important documents and making short last-minute phone calls on behalf of those who wanted to say goodbye to their families. Vietnamese mingled with English, sparring around wildly as bold women clung desperately to his uniform, begging for him to help them get their husbands and children through the gates, pleading for them to deliver them safely to America. Alfred couldn't stand to look at any of them for too long, so he gently shook them off and gave them a sad smile before driving his way through the bumbling sea.

He had initially opted to take the stairs up to the roof, but the entrance was packed with a clump of people waiting for the helicopters, determined to be one of the first ones up and out of the city. Alfred then settled to take the elevator when a few Marines from outside joined him. They all crammed into the elevator, the heat even more unbearable in such small quarters. Alfred felt like he was being suffocated, hot air stifling his lungs as he tried to breathe past the rush. They hurried up the steps leading to the roof, apologizing as they bumped against a few people who were waiting for their own turn up the roof, and burst through the door. A crowd of evacuees had already begun to gather there: Embassy staff members, refugees, and even a few news reporters were flinching against the commotion. Alfred followed everyone's gazes up to the sky, having to squint to see the tiny black dot that was the first helicopter approaching to carry away evacuees.

Kean grabbed Alfred by the arm. "Alright, captain. Stand here with the rest of the evacuees; you're getting on this first helicopter."

"What? No, I'm not going!" Alfred yanked his arm away. "There's no way, I'm staying here to help you."

Kean's lips thinned dangerously. "With all due respect, Jones, there can't be any question when it comes to this. The minute that helicopter lands, you _have_ to get on it."

Alfred stubbornly stood his ground. "No. I'm not."

Kean didn't look in the mood to argue. "I admire your boldness, but now's not the time to pick a fight. I've been given specific orders to make sure _you_ evacuate Saigon as soon as—"

"And I'm telling you that I'm not going," Alfred repeated vehemently. "There are plenty of people who need to be evacuated much sooner than I do, and I'm not taking that chance by taking anyone's place."

"Your heroism is admirable," Kean snapped. "But you _have_ to get on that helicopter. You're the _National Representative_ of the _United States of America_, and if you don't get the hell out of here as soon as possible—"

"I can't die if that's what you're worried about—Well, I mean I can, but I'd come back. I'll be fine here, sir, and I know that you've been given specific orders, but I'm _not_ going to run away when people need our help."

Kean's expression notably softened. "We're already running, Jones."

It was true. They _were_ running, but Alfred didn't want to admit that. He knew that the Americans were no use to Vietnam anymore—hell, their fight was done for all the way back in 1973. There was simply no point in any of them being there, and now, to dodge the bloody bullet that was stalking towards the city, they were running like cowards.

Alfred clenched his jaw. "I'm. Not. Going."

Kean stared him down as the helicopter came closer, it's wings already chopping through the wind and swirling the air about them as it hovered. Upon seeing the approaching helicopter, the crowd rallying outside the gate went wild, charging against the wiry walls, reaching their hands over their heads, begging to be rescued.

"Fine," Kean bitterly acquiesced. "Have it your way."

Just as he went to guide the helicopter down, loud cracks whistled off into the air. At first, Alfred thought it was someone in the crowd lighting firecrackers, trying to get the attention of the helicopter's pilot, but as everyone screamed in panic and ducked their heads, it became clear that those splintering booms were actually gunshots.

"What's the hell is that?" Alfred shouted as he joined the Marines at Kean's side, crouching forward to avoid being hit.

"Those are them cowboys!" one of the Marines replied. "Goddamn looters!"

"Will someone let a policeman know that some son of a bitch in the building across from us is shooting at our helicopters?" Kean demanded.

One of the Marines broke away and descended down the stairs, shouting apologies as he made his way down. The helicopter was already sporting a few bullet holes, but nothing too damaging. It must've hovered above them for a while; the gunshots had temporarily subsided, but the people below them continued to shout.

Kean and a few Marines finally guided the thing down, standing clear as the helicopter made its seventy-foot vertical descent down to the Embassy's roof, hitching up bulbous waves of wind as it came down. The helicopter's choppers had begun to slow, and immediately, before it could even have a successful touchdown, Marines began ushering evacuees inside. As they boarded, Kean had climbed up to meet the pilot and was using their headset to get in contact with the Seventh Fleet, telling them that the original plan of requiring only two helicopters for the evacuation wasn't going to be enough.

Alfred was among those that hauled people into the helicopter, trying to match up children with their mothers, intent on making sure no one got separated along the way. One woman was crying joyfully, thanking him profusely in broken English. A young husband and his wife stared up at him in wide-eyed disbelief, a little boy and his teenage mother clung tightly to one another.

"Alright!" Kean came off headset and ordered for everyone to step back. He took a short glance to Alfred in silent questioning, one last effort to get him on the Huey. Alfred shook his head in reply.

It took a while for the helicopter to get up as it struggled with the weight. It went straight up, abandoning the traditional translational maneuver where the pilot leaned the helicopter forward and then up. It was dangerous how many people were packed inside; Alfred estimated that they were at least doubling the weight that these things were meant to carry, but as it began its steady ascension into the air, a tiny breath of relief washed over him.

The guns were firing again, and the remaining people waiting on the rooftop had begun panicking.

"God damn it!" a voice yelled. "Someone take care of that fucking shooter!"

The helicopter flew gratefully off, carrying away the first batch of evacuees. And now, the next one was coming.

The CH-53s had begun arriving at the same time, nestling in the parking lot as more and more evacuees were being pulled from the building and into these heavier aircrafts.

"Jones, you really should be getting in one of those birds!" Kean shouted over the roar of another incoming helicopter.

Alfred brought forward a group of evacuees closer. "Not a chance in hell!"

Helicopters came in and came out, landing and taking off, being packed and lugged like airborne mail. CH-53s were lifting in and out, taking Marines with them, families, news reporters, refugees. Anyone who had waited on the roof was being ushered into these aircrafts, disappearing into the sky as they made their course to the waiting aircraft carriers out at sea. Every time a new helicopter strayed in, Kean made a beeline to the pilot to borrow their head sets, keeping as much constant contact with the Seventh Fleet as he could.

The civilians outside the Embassy that had managed to loot guns were still shooting at the helicopters as they flew in and out, causing many of them to land with a considerable amount of bullet holes. The shots would subside for a while, but as soon as another helicopter made its appearance, it would start up again. It was a routine that no one seemed to have the power to fix.

"Get 'em out of here!" a Marine yelled to a pilot as they loaded up the next helicopter.

This recent helicopter was proving to be a bit problematic. The thing was really fighting to fly—it would attempt to lift off, but would shakily come right back down. Its belly was filled beyond its absolute limits; it was a futile endeavor to try to get it into the sky with so many people clambering inside.

"Okay, take some people off!" Kean ordered.

Alfred was reluctant to do so, knowing how badly these people wanted to leave as soon as humanly possible, but unless they wanted to lose a helicopter to overflowing weight, hard feelings would have to be put aside. They took off a few people and stood back. The helicopter tried again, but it still refused to lift.

Kean bowed his head, entirely chagrined. "More!"

More people were escorted off. After the helicopter had been relieved of its burden, it finally began to take off. Kean rushed to the pilot and commanded him to park the helicopter as soon as they were cleared to land on the aircraft carriers. It had proved to be underpowered and was thus useless in the evacuation. Once that helicopter blew off, another came in its place. More people were packed, more people were stuffed.

It was an unforgiving pattern.

Land, pack, take off, repeat. Land, pack, take off, repeat. Land, pack, take off, repeat.

And it seemed to never end.

* * *

**5:00 P.M.**

Alfred couldn't remember exactly how many helicopters landed in those blurred hours, it seemed like the supply was endless as he helped people into them, pausing only minutely for a quick breath before another flew in to take on the next group of hysterical evacuees. He had been ordered by Kean a few times to run quickly down to the parking lot to check progress there.

The Sea Knights had finally begun to make their appearance, gigantic Chinooks that landed in the parking lot with practiced grace as Marines began to dive in, strapping themselves to their seats before they took off and disappeared.

Once progress on the roof had smoothed over, Kean had begun running back and forth, trying frantically to keep in contact with the Seventh Fleet over the sea as helicopters flew out too quickly for him to catch a chance on the head set. On one of his runs, Alfred took particular notice that he had begun to limp.

"Lieutenant Colonel, how're you holding up?"

"Just peachy, Jones." Kean had started back to the stairwell down from the roof when Alfred came next to him.

"You're limping."

Kean huffed shortly. "Yeah, bad ankle. Swollen."

"Don't you think you should sit down?" Alfred suggested. Kean looked over his shoulder at him incredulously. Alfred realized how dumb he must have sounded and shook his head, waving his arms around in a dismissive manner.

"Never mind, never mind! Just—just be careful!"

Kean grunted in response, obviously in a rush, and ran down the steps to the elevator. Alfred went back to his own job, directing evacuees into the Hueys and hastily assuring them that they would be safe on the awaiting ships.

Land, pack, take off, repeat. Land, pack, take off, repeat.

And repeat.

And repeat.

* * *

**7:00 P.M.**

Alfred had remembered being told that no evacuations would take place after five in the evening.

However the Embassy was still packed; people were still waiting to be airlifted. Night was falling. Alfred knew there would be no way that all these people would make it out by five in the evening. Though despite the time limit that had been ambiguously insinuated, helicopters kept dutifully flying in, not once lagging in the silence of orders. As it began to get darker, Kean had it so that Mission Warden vehicles and sedans that were pushed aside in the parking lot were gathered accordingly to light the landing zones for the pilots. Alfred had scrambled outside and started one of the engines, ordering for the rest to be kept idle under Kean's command. As long as the light shone, pilots wouldn't delay.

Then hell broke loose.

"A flight limit is going to be imposed," Kean announced once Alfred climbed back up to the roof. "Now we have to count whose getting out and who's not getting out. Give me numbers, quickly!"

The Marines ran out back down the stairs. The crowds had died down and the stairwell down to the Embassy building was clear. All that was left was the remaining civilians down near the Embassy's ground floors just outside the Chancery.

Alfred glanced confusedly at Kean, his word choice setting him aback.

"What do you mean we're counting whose getting in and whose getting out?"

Kean said nothing as he had begun to descend down the stairs.

"Aren't we taking _everyone_ out with us?" Alfred asked, a gaping pit already opening in his stomach.

Kean pressed his lips together. He then looked Alfred straight in the eyes. "No, captain. We can't. We're coming to the end here, and we still have our remaining Marines to think about."

"But… But we promised all those people that we'd take them."

"I understand what we promised them, but if a limit will be imposed, then there's no way we can remain here and pack all these people into helicopters. We have to think about our men first."

Alfred couldn't believe what he was hearing. There had to be at least over four hundred people down in the Embassy, waiting to be lifted to safety, and he couldn't bear thinking that after all their efforts, they wouldn't be able to save everyone after all.

"There _has_ to be more helicopters coming," Alfred pressed feverishly. "_There_ _has_ _to be_—Ford wouldn't have us leave behind all these people—"

"We need to think about ourselves, too, Jones." Kean had begun to limp away from Alfred as he spoke. The cool night air was a dramatic change from the earlier heat, and while it was a welcoming relief, it did nothing to soothe Alfred's nerves. His heart squeezed in his chest and he felt a tremor slithering through his hands, a trickling shiver creeping along his spine.

"But the civilians…"

Kean paused before the elevator and sighed, his head bowed. "I know, captain."

Alfred shook his head. "We _promised_ them."

Kean looked up to him with dismal eyes. "I know, captain."

* * *

**8:00 P.M.**

There was a sudden lull in helicopters. It was most likely in conjuncture to the flight limit, and while it was a rational response, the men couldn't help but feel a bit jittery about the wait. Long moments passed where the night went silent, devoid of the rhythmic thrum of helicopter wings that Alfred had grown so accustomed to. The men were still scampering around the Embassy, striding into the crowd with an admirable professionalism and hardly looking anyone in the eye as they counted them off, gathering up the numbers as they walked past the people they had promised to bring to safety. They looked over them all with a cool disregard, flitting over them like they were animals, never settling, never still. Never bothering to smile at the mother with her infant children, damning themselves if they spared a glance at the elderly couple cramped in the corner playing with threadbare cards, shoving past the two beautiful little girls that munched at stale bread as they daydreamed about their future lives in the United States.

Alfred couldn't join the Marines for their count, he _couldn't_.

He couldn't stand to look at those people and know that they were going to be left behind after all. There had been such inflating hope for them; they were spoon-fed freedom, cradled to the pledge of a newer joy, and now, after hours and hours of waiting, after hours and hours of tireless labors, they were to be deceived after all. Kean had told him nothing was set in stone yet, but all hope seemed to be lost.

Alfred flopped bonelessly against the wall, a glass of whiskey in his hand as he looked out over the Embassy's third-floor bar. A sad little room, once dimmed with a lush, smoky light as men and women alike smoked their cigars and drank in their lives, their youth and their inspirations, waxing poetry or recounting fond memories. That was all dead now. Alfred drank from his astringent glass.

This was really the end.

The men who were at the bar were completely smashed, most of them slumbering on the hard floors, draped over the counter like cadavers. Many of them Alfred recognized as South Korean diplomats, all who had been guaranteed a fair flight out of the Embassy far away from Saigon. He considered waking them up, but reconsidered it when he realized that he would have to tell them that they were probably being left behind.

He swirled his drink before taking a final gulp. The whiskey made his chest warm, tickling his ribs and tingling under his tongue. He rested his head back against the wall and closed his heavy eyes.

_I never thought it would end this way._

Vietnam had been a war wrongly fought. Alfred had entered it in full zest, eager to push out the communists and declare the world free of those fearful ghosts, but the fantasy had soon faded and reality came bursting to the dream.

He had lost so many men in the past fourteen years. So many children had raised their flags and cried out for patriotism, eager for the day they turned eighteen to enlist, singing so innocently about obliterating the Communist Party and rendering the world to its rightful state as a sleek paradigm of the United States. Alfred had looked at them all with pride, such swelling pride that filled him with hope and excitement, the taste of power so fresh to his lips and broiling hotly in his veins as they flew out, one by one, holstering their rifles and waving widely to their golden plains, their violet skies, their ivory coasts.

And when they returned, it was in boxes.

Alfred rubbed at his forehead and put the glass back down on the bar's cluttered counter. He grabbed a clean napkin from behind the shimmering bottles and cleaned his glasses, his vision suddenly sharp without the streaks of soot on the lenses. He blinked around the room, taking in the sleeping men and running his hand through his dirty hair. It was in that moment that he realized that he had never felt so useless.

"I'm sorry," he whispered aloud in a papery voice. No one stirred.

As Alfred turned to leave the room, he heard the faint thundering of an approaching helicopter.

* * *

**9:30 P.M.**

Most of the Marines were gone now. The man named Sawyer had left two helicopters ago. The young man that had summoned Alfred to the parking lot to cut down trees had just been carried away. A majority of the remaining men were the ones guarding the gates outside, austere and unmoving, quietly snubbing the idea of taking anymore civilians over the walls, no matter how much they begged or how much they screamed. A few brave souls had tried to breach over the entrance, but Marines would fire warning shots to keep them subdued.

It was all Alfred could do to keep himself from throwing open the gates and shoving them all into the tiny Hueys.

* * *

**11:00 P.M.**

There was another lull in helicopters. Alfred was exhausted and had himself another drink.

The numbers were counted. Four hundred civilians would be left behind if the lifts didn't regularly continue.

Alfred drank on their behalf.

* * *

AND NOW!

Clarifications!

So, about them **cutting down trees and clearing cars away in the Embassy parking lot**: that is all very true. Since there wasn't enough room for those big ass Chinooks on the roof, and since there wasn't much choice, someone got the idea of using the parking lot as a landing zone and cleared away the trees so that the helicopters had room to land. It took them two hours to clear the parking lot, AND it was hotter than hell. I think a whopping 112 degrees Fahrenheit or something crazy like that.

**Lieutenant Colonel Jim Kean** (June 30, 1941 - May 5, 2008) was in charge of the evacuation. This man literally went through hell trying to lead everyone out, and while I'm probably not portraying him to justice, he was unfathomably calm and collected through out the entire process. He did run back and forth during most of the evacuation, and did borrow helicopter pilot's headsets constantly to keep up contact with the Seventh Fleet. I wasn't sure if I was to label him as a lieutenant colonel or a major, because a lot of articles said both, but lieutenant colonel eventually won out because it was the one that came up the most. His story on the evacuation (which is incidentally the place I got most of my research) is here: . . Very interesting; if you're a war nut like me, you should go check it out.

**Hueys** are UH-1 helicopters. They're nicknamed Huey for some reason. I don't really know why. **CH-53s** are basically helicopters on steroids (they seriously kick ass) and **Sea Knights** are the CH-46s, and they basically look like a big, long helicopter. Please Google these images. I'm crap at describing them.

**Ambassador Graham Martin** (1912-1990)was appointed as Ambassador of South Vietnam in 1973 and was a committed anti-Communist who severely underestimated the severity of the situation in South Vietnam to such an extent that he continued to believe Saigon was unaffected by the incoming Northerners. This is why he continuously refused to allow the evacuation to be executed.

**The Seventh Fleet** had their aircraft carriers on standby to receive the evacuees that were flying in from Saigon. These are the people that Kean kept trying to keep in contact with so that they were aware of the number of people that were being evacuated. If you really want to know more about them, look them up, their purposes in the Vietnam war were pretty interesting.

**South Korean diplomats** along with **four hundred other evacuees** waiting for their turn at evacuation were indeed left behind.

Until next time, lads!


	2. April 30, 1975: Part I

Am I annoying you yet? Too bad.

Well, here we are, the second chapter. I've decided to split up this chapter 'April 30' into two parts because the chapter would've been _way_ too long if I kept every single detail. So here's the first part.

Also, I want to quickly address the issue I was having with this fic: My profile might tell you that FanFiction was indeed having some sort of issue with this story because it kept on either being deleted the minute I posted it or the link it was assigned would be defunct. Either way, it looks like its fixed now, so I think I'm just gonna take my chances and carry on with this story.

So without further ado, here's the second chapter of WTSF (I'm a lazy American who doesn't want to type) and I hope you all enjoy it.

-M. Rykov

* * *

_April 30, 1975_

* * *

**2:15 A.M.**

The CH-46s and the CH-53s were beginning to land every ten minutes. Embassy staff members were being pulled and so were a few other lingering Marines. As Kean ran back and forth from the roof down to the building he kept glancing to Alfred, silently and unstintingly imploring him to get on the next incoming helicopter. Every time, Alfred declined.

It was at that time that Kean gravelly announced to the men that he had just received word that the President was permitting twenty more lifts. After that, they were finished in Vietnam.

After years of tireless bloodshed and trauma, after years of chaotic wanderings and tragic demises, they would finally—_finally_—be done. Alfred would have cried in relief if he wasn't so exhausted. He glanced over the roof as the next helicopter took off, watching thousands of heads bobbling cluelessly in the dark. Some people had actually lied down in the middle of the street, crammed under makeshift tents made from thin bed sheets, shielding their heads from the flying sand with threadbare clothes, using their sandals and bulky suitcases as pillows.

Alfred looked away, unable to stomach the sight for much longer without utterly hating himself. He couldn't think about any of them now. He had to wipe his mind clear of any sort of emotional blockage; he couldn't think about how he was leaving these poor innocent people to the Northerners; he couldn't think about how Saigon would be burnt to the ground after the communists marched through; he couldn't think that after years of seeing his men go insane—spattering on about the horrors beyond the cities, the barbarous torture deep in the untamed wilderness, the naked fear behind dark alleyways—it would all be for nothing. He couldn't think about how miserably, how pathetically and how agonizingly, he had lost this war.

* * *

**4:30 A.M.**

A CH-46 Sea Knight called _Lady Ace 09_ landed on the roof. Alfred was beckoned by a young corporal with a machine gun who had been speaking to the pilot once he had successfully landed.

"It's for Ambassador Martin!" he shouted over the screech of the massive mechanical beast.

Alfred looked the corporal over. He was the mirror image of many men in Vietnam—he was only kid; Alfred noted that he still had the roundness of youth to his face.

"Call Kean!" Alfred yelled over the whir of the Sea Knight's wings. The corporal grabbed his Walkie Talkie and yelled down into it, "Lieutenant Colonel Kean, Lieutenant Colonel Kean. I got the Ambassador's bird up here!"

There was a long pause as Alfred strained to hear Kean's response.

"_Hold it there. I need some instructions," _came his gruff response.

The corporal held up a hand to the pilot, signaling for him to stall. Before long, Kean had made a reappearance on the roof. The corporal and Alfred followed him to the pilot's side as Kean borrowed the headset for the umpteenth time, waiting for a while to get a clear signal.

"Carey, this is Kean…"

A long pause. Kean nodded, responded appropriately. After a lengthy pause his brow furrowed; that wasn't a good sign. He shouted down the headset, punctuating every word as clearly as he could, "My Marines are on the wall and there's the front door of the Embassy, and between the Marines and the front door of the Embassy there are some four hundred people who are still waiting to be evacuated."

Another pause. Alfred held his breath.

"I want you to understand _clearly_," Kean enunciated, "that when I pull the Marines back to the Embassy those people will be left behind!"

Alfred's stomach dropped. There it was. The inevitable. They were _really_ leaving all those people behind. Alfred couldn't understand why he was even surprised.

Kean understood the severity of the situation, shutting his eyes as if to repudiate it all.

"Yes, sir."

Kean gave the headset back to the crew's chief and brushed past Alfred, staring down intently at the corporal.

"You hold this bird until I get the ambassador up here. I don't want that bird leaving until this is resolved."

The corporal nodded and Kean made his way to disappear down the stairwell. This time, Alfred followed him.

"We're really leaving all those people here, aren't we?"

The Lieutenant Colonel said nothing. He limped on with a powerful force, holding up all the dignity of a military official, refusing to suffer under his burden, pressing on with the unabashed poise of a true-blooded leader. Alfred knew that leaving those people was the last thing Kean wanted to do, but here at the end of the wire, there was little else that could be done.

"What did General Carey say?" Alfred asked softly, his voice cracking slightly from fatigue.

"You'll hear it when I explain it to Martin," Kean replied curtly. "I don't want to say it twice."

They burst through the Embassy and ran into a vacant room, where Ambassador Martin and his small group of men sat in quiet order, infuriatingly calm at a polished table, their hands folded and theirs back straight. Martin looked mutely up at Kean, as if disinterested at his entrance.

Alfred had only met the ambassador once, and it was because of this that his opinion of him was rather undeveloped. He was an unreadable man, his eyes narrowed with a low brow, his lips slight and his hair thinning and graying. Martin seemed to be vaguely unaware of what was going on, but Kean was quick to put aside all greetings.

"I've just been in contact with the President and he has given me precise orders." Kean looked down at Martin with a steely gaze. "You are to leave Vietnam immediately. There's a Sea Knight named _Lady Ace 09_ waiting for you on the roof, one of my men is holding it as we speak."

A stint of confusion briefly crossed the ambassador's harsh features. "And the civilians—?"

"The President has ordered that all flights from this point on will be for U.S. and amphibious personnel only." Kean's voice was short and rigid. "No more civilians."

Alfred felt his chest splinter. To hear the words aloud—bluntly and in their fullest truth—was heartbreaking.

An unfriendly silence fell into the room, settling like a cloud over the ambassador. After a long moment, one of his suit-clad men turned to him and said in a dour voice, "It's time to go."

It was four solemn words that Alfred would never seem to forget.

The words seemed to awaken Martin to something entirely new. He glanced over at Kean, but Alfred was surprised to see that the ambassador's face was once again blank of any dire reaction, drained completely of emotion. He didn't look half as angry as Alfred felt, nor did he seem as saddened. He just seemed tired, sullenly resigned and compliant. He knew this moment would come sooner or later. This sad, sad moment.

With deliberate slowness, Martin stood and crossed the table, his shoes polished to an enticing shine, and plucked one of the smaller American flags that were usually kept as decoration. When he started to the door, so did his men. The group was flanked by Kean and Alfred as they were escorted up to the roof, the white lights from the vehicles below them smoky like a mercurial fog in the darkness of the early morning. The group of men approached _Lady Ace_ with wholesome gravity, fastening themselves into the Sea Knight as routinely as if it was a regular morning custom.

Alfred and Kean stood back as _Lady Ace_ _09_ gradually lifted into the air, loud and hulking.

Martin chanced a look downward at the men circling beneath him on the roof, growing smaller and smaller as the bird rose higher and higher into the empty sky.

He clutched tightly to the American flag the entire time.

* * *

**4:53 A.M.**

The time had come.

"Are we clear on the plan?" Kean spoke into the Walkie Talkie.

"_Roger." _

Alfred had rehearsed said plan in his mind over and over, muttering to himself as he paced across the gravelly roof.

After Martin left, it was made abundantly clear that the only people left were himself, a about sixty or so Marines, and Kean. Once they were lifted out of Vietnam, further American involvement in the country would be terminated.

Kean had told the Marines in the parking lot—the ones warily guarding the gates—via his Walkie Talkie that his men on the roof would release a definitive signal, a red flare, which would indicate for the men at the gates to begin their retreat. They would have to do so slowly, carefully and without much force since Kean wanted the evacuation as peaceful as possible. Word got along the wall that in order to do so, the Marines at the gates would have to retreat in a large semi-circle. If their backs were to turn it would be more trouble. Kean agreed to that and the plan was solidified.

Alfred was going home.

Kean looked to a few of his Marines.

"I want you all down in the Embassy behind the front doors. As those kids are backing up, you be at the ready to yank them in. The minute they start retreating, people are going to be climbing over those walls and all hell is gonna break loose. I want you all at the ready. Not one man is left behind."

The Marines nodded and started down the stairs to their position. Kean turned to Alfred.

"You should go, too. You're quick and they'll need the help." Kean pointed up at the sky. "Stand by at the stairwell. The _second_ that red flare goes up, you sprint down those steps like the devil's after you. Got it?"

Alfred nodded and walked to the stairwell, his muscles knotting in anticipation.

"You should've gone with the ambassador, Jones," Kean called after him. Alfred, very much at the edge of his patience, made the effective choice to ignore him. He didn't want to go anywhere without the civilians, but now it was pretty obvious that that plan had been thrown out the window a while ago.

He stationed himself at the stairs' threshold, readying himself to break into a run the instant that flare went off. The roof was relatively empty now, and one of the young Marines that had stayed behind jaunted to the center of the roof. He held something that looked like a small gun, stubby and black, small and sleek, and held it straight up into the air. He waited for Kean to give the ready, looking over his shoulder as he did so.

Kean inhaled deeply. Once. Twice. "_Now!_"

Covering his eyes, the Marine pulled the trigger. The flare shot up into the air with a blast and a pop, a red cluster sparking violently against the velvety night sky like a brilliant star-burst. It reminded Alfred of a firework, but there wasn't much time to admire its beauty now. He raced down the stairs, nearly tripping over his own feet as he skipped steps, leaping down to the ground floor and almost smashing into the walls as he tried to right his balance. The minute his feet had planted themselves firmly on the ground, the fluorescent lights went out. The sudden darkness disoriented him for a moment, but thanks to his knowing the Embassy like the back of his hand, he was able to make an easy path to the Embassy's large mahogany doors, drawing up next to a crowd of Marines in labored breath.

"Get ready, everyone," he said lowly.

All the Marines stiffened, their bodies tensing for action. Through the crack between the doors, Alfred could see that the Marines out at the gates had already begun to move back, looming silhouettes in the thrum of vehicle's headlights, their backs toward them and their heads fixed forward at the gates. Just as Kean had predicted, a few civilians outside the Embassy began to ascend the gates, grunting as they pulled their weight over, quiet and untroubled. No shots fired and the would-be evacuees inside the compound were still calm.

Alfred's heart was racing. So far, so good…

But of course, the peace crashed and burned as soon as it had begun to take flight. As the Marines came closer and closer to the doors, the crowd outside the Embassy had begun to turn frantic. They began to realize what was happening; it had dawned on them as suddenly as a blow to the face. They began clamoring their ways through the gates, tumultuous bodies rocking in great heaves as they threw themselves against the ground, sticking their dry sand-smeared hands through the wired fence, twisting themselves over the weight of those who used them as human step ladders, screaming and shouting to be rescued.

Alfred felt his heart plummet, his eyes stung. He just wanted to get this over with.

Soon enough, as the people outside the gates began to panic, so did the people in the compound. They realized they were being left behind, too. Despite constant reassurances that they would be able to hitch a ride to the Land of the Free, they were being left to the Northerners. They were being abandoned. The look of absolute horror and devastation on their faces, the betrayal in their voices, was too much for Alfred to stand. He backed away from the doors to gather his nerves, fighting to suppress the tremors running up and down his body.

"Hey!" a Marine hissed at him. "What the hell are you doing? The boy's are getting closer."

Alfred took in a deep breath—_Don't think about it, don't think about it, just_ do it—and went back to the doors, trying in vain to swallow past the knot that had suddenly swelled up in his throat. His hands clenched against the smooth wood. All he wanted was to get out of here. He couldn't stand being here any longer.

Now, chaos reigned. People began to run towards the Marines, charging at them like angry bulls, dangerous in their desperation. Shots were fired high up into the air, thunderous booms, careful to avoid hitting anyone. Men and women alike were cursing, children were stuck between fear and confusion, and others were still too shocked to react.

Finally, the withdrawing Marines had come close enough to be at arm's length. Everyone behind the doors began to stick out their hands, grasping and pulling them inside. Alfred reached out blindly and seized a young man by his hair. He had yelped as Alfred lugged him in, but Alfred hardly paid him any mind as he reached out for the next one, this time catching him at the rear of his uniform's collar and yanking him backwards. After jerking back a few more, he put out his hand for a final time, catching one of the last men by the scruff of his neck and practically dragging him in.

All the Marines at the gate had been accounted for and the Embassy doors were forced close and secured. As they locked the doors Alfred could hear people running up and hammering themselves into them, clamoring heavily against the wood, actually managing to fissure its refined gloss with a splitting _crack_. Wood alone wasn't going to be enough to hold them out. Alfred pressed his weight against the doors, prompting everyone else to do the same, forcing them by the skin of their teeth to remain close.

Footsteps thumped down to meet them. Kean had suddenly appeared and jumped to the motor-operated chain link drop by the entrance, warning them to stand back once it got too close to their heads. The metal guard began to descend, unhurried and menacing, closing off the mouth of the threshold like a garage door. As the drop came to level with most of their heads, they began to duck out from under it, backing away cautiously as the fracture in the doors grew bigger. It had only come half way down the mahogany doors when it suddenly jerked to a stop, stalled, then froze completely. Kean pressed worriedly at the motor, slapping it, striking it. The drop didn't budge.

It was stuck. Oh god, it was _actually stuck_.

Kean and a few others tried to bring down the drop until someone finally exclaimed, "Oh, fuck it!"

Everyone seemed to be on the same page. They bolted from the doors; to hell with that drop, it wasn't going to help anyway. People were smart when they were desperate—they'd eventually find a way in.

Alfred could still hear a muffled pounding coming from outside, bloodcurdling screams muffled behind splitting wood and weak metal. The sound made him shudder. Yes, it was time to go.

The group was large, about sixty men in total, and they all ran in fluid motion away from the doors, dashing in the dark as they hung on to each other's shoulders to avoid trampling over one another. Alfred felt someone yanking him roughly by the arm, pulling him away from the crowd and into thick darkness.

"We're cutting the elevators." It was Kean. "Come on!"

As most of the Marines took the stairs up to the roof, Alfred and eleven others went to the elevators. They sent them up to the sixth floor and cut the power, eliminating their use to anyone who broke in. Once that was finished, they rushed up the stairs, closing off each floor with security shutters as they passed, hauling the cagey black grates with ominous finality. It felt like they were running from monsters.

Alfred was out of breath when they reached the roof again, a helicopter already approaching to take away the largest group of Marines.

"Jones, you're getting in this helicopter!" Kean shouted as it drew closer. "No arguments!"

"No I'm not!" Alfred screamed back. The helicopter came parallel to the roof and lowered itself, a few men were already gathering around it, eager to take their flights to safety.

"I'm not leaving until we're all gone!"

"Stop being so damn ridiculous, Jones!" It was evident Kean's patience was running thin; he had to be surely exhausted after running back and forth the entire day with a swollen ankle. "You're getting on this goddamn helicopter; I'll already be in deep shit since you weren't one of the first people to be evacuated, so you're leaving _now_."

"Sorry, sir." The helicopter touched down. "I'm not going on this one."

"Then_ when _are you?" It was the first time during the whole evacuation Alfred saw Kean's composure slipping. "Are you gonna let yourself get stranded here and let the rest of us all go if there's not enough room?"

"If there's no choice, then yeah," Alfred said easily. Kean looked ready to slap him.

"You're a damn idiot, Jones," he hissed. "You're getting on this helicopter."

Alfred shook his head. "No way."

In a split second, the helicopter had filled with twenty Marines, all strapping themselves in and preparing for lift off. Kean, finally having enough with Alfred's selflessness, seized his arm and he tugged at him with all his strength.

Alfred was strong—much stronger than any human, no matter how much military training they had—but was nonetheless caught off-guard by Kean's persistence. He lost his footing and Kean took the opportunity to drag him forward.

"You're getting on!"

"_NO!_"

Regaining his balance, Alfred drew back with such brute force Kean nearly fell over. The helicopter didn't wait for them and instead lifted off the roof, and before Kean could stand straight again, it had disappeared. In a few moments, another one would be coming.

Kean smoothed his uniform with a firm lip. His voice was dangerously low, positively seething. "I _swear_ to God Almighty, Jones—"

"Listen," Alfred interrupted icily. "I know how important it is for you to get me on a helicopter as soon as possible, but I'm not going until _every_—_single_—_one_ of these Marines are out of here first." He gritted his teeth furiously. "If I can't save all those people we promised, then let me do this much at least."

Kean looked at him in disbelief, scrutinizing him with narrowed eyes, appearing as if he was caught between saying something admirable or something caustic…

… But he said nothing. Instead, he turned away and addressed his men that the helicopters would take twenty people at a time before he and his last group were to be evacuated. Alfred was determined to be in that last group, so he decided not to push his luck and stood back. Kean seemed to be on his side, but Alfred knew the minute the opportunity presented itself, the second Alfred let his guard down, he would haul him up by his hair and toss him into a bird without much of a fight.

Alfred was not letting that happen. Sure, he may be fleeing the war like a coward, and of course he's surrendering in the most pitiful way possible, but that wasn't going to stop him from running away without _some_ of his dignity. If he couldn't win the war, he wasn't going to be the first to leave it.

He _will_ surrender, but he will surrender with his _pride_. No one, not Lieutenant Colonel Kean, not Ambassador Martin, not even President Gerald R. Ford, could take that away from him.

So he watched in a daze as helicopters came in and swooped up twenty Marines at a time, these gigantic black shadows consistently circling back for their remaining warriors, their lasting soldiers, most of them younger than twenty, taking them up to the warmth of their bodies like Vikings to Valhalla. Alfred watched every last one of them board, honoring them in his own quiet way as they disappeared into the night sky.

They had served him to the bitter end. They had fought well.

* * *

**7:00 A.M.**

There were only eleven of them left.

And they were all shattered. Some of them sat, a few sprawled out in the middle of the roof and actually slept, others remained standing, suffering the harsh repercussions of their adrenaline rush as it dissolved into bewildering shock. Kean stood tall like a conqueror as he looked out into the eastern fraction of the brightening sky, watching as the daunting night broke into a convalescent dawn.

Alfred pushed himself off from his place on the ground and stood beside him, following his gaze. There was nothing for miles, nothing but the odd stringent smell of smoke and sharp morning dew. The birds had begun to sing. It was actually peaceful.

The people down inside the compound and outside the gates had ceased in their screaming, although Alfred would occasionally hear someone bellowing curses at them from the ground floors, maybe someone wailing, perhaps a child crying. The noises have since dulled in Alfred's mind, losing their sting as they began to fade into a dreary pulse. Did it still pain Alfred to hear them? Absolutely. Yet there was nothing he could possibly do to help them. Nothing but listen.

For being such a powerful nation, he felt so unbelievably helpless. He hadn't felt this small since the Civil War, when his own countrymen were ripping their brothers apart on home's soil for something so unbelievably trivial, something that should have been as clear as crystal, but was marred by blood and bullets.

It was in these little sunrises, these small statutes of nature, that Alfred found a minuscule wisp of solace. It was in these new dawns that a new day began; it was in these new beginnings that a new hope flourished.

"Beautiful, huh?" Kean said, his voice croaky from shouting. Alfred breathed in the new frosted air and sighed.

"Yeah… Sure is."

Kean reached up and clamped a hand down on his shoulder.

"Take a good look, Captain Jones. It's the last you'll see of good 'ole Vietnam."

"Thank god," Alfred muttered under his breath, though Kean certainly heard him.

"She can be beautiful," he said. "Even when she's in hell."

They then fell silent, reveling in these last few moments of peace before anything else happened. Alfred knew he was going home, he knew his time here in this sultry country was over, but the battle didn't end here; the United States would be up and storming when he returned, and sure enough, Ivan was still sponsoring in his silent war for communism. No, Alfred Jones was not quite finished yet.

"Sir?" A young Marine approached the two of them carefully, his face flushed from energy. "I think you should come and see this."

Kean and Alfred exchanged uncertain glances before they decided to have a look. The young man led them to the edge of the roof where other Marines who weren't sleeping had gathered, gazing curiously over the edge. Alfred peered over the rising throng in front of the Embassy and glanced out into the street.

It looked like a tornado had swept through the boulevards. Trash was everywhere, suitcases with articles of clothing were spilled out into the street, the dangerous glint of scattered ammo reflected the rising sun; some that had been most unfortunate to have been crushed in the panic lay dead in the street, their limbs twisted grotesquely. As Alfred looked out farther, he realized where the smell of smoke had been coming from. Fires billowed out far into the city, large ashy clouds flouncing from inside bombed out buildings as they burned against the morning light.

And there, out in the street, right in front of the Embassy, a cavalcade of cars was driving towards the National Palace. It was most likely Duong Van Minh, the short-lived President of Southern Vietnam, taking his position to surrender his country to the Northerners. The convoy was complete with a national police escort, and when a teeming crowd began to swarm around them, they shot them down just so they could have a clear path through down the trodden roads.

It was all so depressing that Alfred couldn't watch it anymore.

He turned away from the roof and decided to rest near the stairwell. As he relaxed against the wall, he could hear the faint, tinny echoes of people trying to get past the security shutters, jostling them and then murmuring curses as they drifted away. To Alfred, they sounded like ghosts. They were whispery little tendrils of words, whisking and eerie.

He briefly removed his glasses and pressed the heels of his hands into his irritated eyes, dry and stinging from lack of sleep. He had never felt so exhausted, his limbs pliant as if he were drunk, the world a bit foggier than before; he hadn't slept in seventy-two hours.

The Marines, however, remained crowded around the edge of the roof, watching as history unfolded before their eyes.

Saigon had fallen. The North had won.

There was a strange bitter sweetness that Alfred hadn't anticipated feeling. From one view, he was overjoyed that the war was finally over, done and dealt with, another nasty memory behind him. Yet there had been so much bloodshed, so much waste and so much destruction, that he couldn't help but be moved by it.

He knew Lien Chung must be down there somewhere, bedraggled and absolutely war-torn, sauntering through the streets like she always did, her head held high as it always was. Alfred remembered his first glimpse of her after entering the war. It was his second time in Vietnam, back in '68, when he was at Huế surveying the damage of the seized city. She and other Northern marksmen had leapt from the rubble and shot down four U.S. patrol men. She was in an absolute frenzy, her long hair swept back and her face and hands encrusted with mud, the whites of her eyes popping from her skull like a wild dog. She had shot at him, and before he could return the attack, she had run off into the smoking rubble with her gunmen.

It had been the only time he saw her throughout the entire war.

He leaned his head back against the wall. _She_ _must be feeling real proud of herself right about now._

One by one, the Marines began to peel away from the roof, returning to their resting states, their gazes far-off as they reflected the past seventy-two hours. Slumped against the gravel, they each fell into an orderly calm, reliving their experiences. It was the quietest the roof had been.

"Bauer," Kean said suddenly, turning away from the roof at long last. "You've got an important job."

The Marine he had been addressing leapt to his feet, acting as if he wasn't collapsing with exhaustion. "Yes, sir?"

"I need you to go to the stairwell and throw some tear gas down the halls to discourage people from coming up here. If they get past it and if anyone gets too close, spray them with your mace, got it?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now go."

Bauer did as he was told and swept past Alfred in his haste to get to the stairwell, climbing down into that clanging darkness. The hiss of the tear gas sighed along the walls as Bauer threw them down the hall. Sure enough, Alfred could hear the responding gasps for breath and choking yelps of surprise. He wanted to cover his ears and curl in on himself, but he resisted the urge in fear of looking weak.

It was at that moment that Kean did something rather strange. He had out his forty-five caliber pistol in his hand, glinting meanly in the brightening sky, and strode over to where Alfred was sitting.

Alfred looked up at him, confused as he held out the pistol in his direction. "What are you—?"

Without explanation, Kean aimed his pistol at the satellite dish next to Alfred and shot at it multiple times, one booming blast after another, continuous in its deafening crescendo as Alfred swore in surprise, his hands flying to his ears.

After a few jarring rounds, Kean's pistol came up empty, clicking hollowly as he pulled at the trigger a few more times before pocketing it.

Alfred stared up at him, open-mouthed and stunned. Kean glanced sharply at him.

"Sorry," he mumbled at last. "Just… Just tired, I guess."

"_Oh_ _my god_," Alfred rasped in a breathy whisper, hardly believing that his hands had begun to shake. The sudden charge of noise had unnerved him, shocking his frayed nerves with such a horrible panic that it knocked the breath out of his lungs. His heart pounded in his chest. "I thought you were going to shoot me."

Kean was perplexed. "God no, why would I shoot you?"

Feeling as if he was slowly beginning to unravel, Alfred stood up and busied his hands by shoving them in his pockets, fighting to keep his voice steady.

"I don't know…" He gave a feeble laugh. "People get crazy, I just… I don't know…"

Kean held him under analytic eyes, knowing full well how anxious soldiers became when they were so close to the end. Alfred was no different. He may not have been human like the rest of them, but he reflected their fear, he lived their sorrows, he felt their pain, and yet he seemed so young; it was disconcerting for Kean to associate him as this dominant entity, the great and powerful United States. He seemed so frightened now, like a lost child.

He cleared his throat. "You did good, Jones."

Alfred snorted. "I _lost_, Kean. And now I'm _running_. I bet those damn Soviets are laughing their asses off."

Kean arched an eyebrow. "I don't know, I say we're doing rather well for our situation."

Alfred felt himself beginning to cool down, his unpleasant apprehensiveness withering. "_You_ did really well, Lieutenant Colonel." He kicked aside a rock. "You did real well. I wouldn't be surprised if they gave you a promotion for what you did here."

Kean screwed his mouth and waved his hand dismissively. "I don't care about a damn promotion; I just care about getting out of here with my head on straight."

The commotion in the stairwell had since heightened from the time Bauer had thrown down the tear gas. A few more Marines had rushed to his side with their maces at the ready, a rather loud scuffle following them as they held off the crowd coming to a slow rush at the stairs.

"You think they'll get through?" Alfred asked.

"We'll see," Kean replied. "I'm more worried about the Viet Cong coming on to us."

"Do you think they'll open fire on us?"

"Doubt it." Kean looked off in the direction towards the National Palace. "I'd say they're literally trying everything they can to avoid a confrontation with us. Though if they _do_ try to have it out with us, we got plenty of ammo and weapons to last us through, but I don't think it'll come to that. I just got this feeling that they're doing everything they can to wait for us to leave before all hell _really_ breaks loose."

Alfred shook his head dismally. "I still can't believe we're leaving behind all these people."

"You've to let that go, Jones." Kean blinked hard, his eyes heavy with dark circles. "I know it's unpleasant, but you gotta let that go."

"I know, I know," Alfred groaned. "Professionalism and all that crap."

"Yes," Kean stated in a tone of finality. "And all that crap."

Alfred looked past him towards the high borders of the roof, where a flicker of movement had caught his eye. In a short instant, he realized what it was.

"Someone's trying to get on the roof!"

A man was climbing by his nails to try to get to the top, his fingers bleeding and his knuckles torn. One of the Marines sprung instantly into action and gripped his rifle, using the butt of it to smash it into the climber's head. Upon impact, the climber's hands had fallen away and he disappeared over the ledge. The Marine that had hit him stared down after him for a brief moment before turning back to his group with a thumbs-up.

"All clear."

"Good," Kean appraised. "If anymore try the same thing, conk them right out."

The hubbub in the stairwell had died down again. In reality, there was now very little activity, and excluding the occasional distant gunshot that announced another dead man on their way to the National Palace, there wasn't much else to attend to. Kean had gestured for everyone to come away from the edge in case anyone tried anything clever. The men gathered in a circle at the roof's center, sitting cross-legged like children, heaving in slow breaths as they fought their fatigue. Alfred and Kean joined them, leaving a few Marines manning the stairwell as they sat in silence, waiting.

One young man, a sergeant named Bobby Frain, was nice enough to fish out his water jug and pass it around, having everyone take a turn for a lukewarm drink. It was the only thing Alfred had in those sleepless hours beside the two glasses of cheap whiskey, and with such a vigorously youthful appetite, he was suddenly hit with a pang of hunger, longing for the coarse solidity of meat and the acidic richness of a sweet drink.

"Is anyone else starving?" he asked without abandon.

"Aw, hell yeah," one of the men responded earnestly. "I could really go for some hot soup right about now."

"No way, man," another piped up. "You can keep your soup—give me a damn _steak_."

"With thick-cut seasoned fries," someone else added.

"And one of those thick-ass milkshakes," Frain contributed, an impish grin spreading across his face. "God, that sounds fucking amazing."

Alfred's mouth was watering. Right now, he was so hungry someone could offer him the head of a horse and he'd happily dig in.

"I don't know about you guys," a young corporal began, "but I can't wait to get back and have a home-cooked meal again."

Frain held up his jug. "I drink to that."

Kean smiled, content. "Soon, boys. _Real_ soon."

Alfred couldn't help smiling along with him. This was the end, but he was finally going home for good. They all were.

In silence, they waited patiently for their helicopter.

* * *

**7:53 A.M.**

Alfred saw it before he heard it. It was one of the unescorted Sea Knights, coming from the east out of the blazing sunrise to take them home.

"Alright, boys, get ready!" Kean ordered as he stood out at the center. Alfred fetched Bauer and the small group of men with him out of the stairwell and told him that the helicopter was coming. They were positively overjoyed, jumping to their feet and racing out of the stairwell as Bauer stayed behind to lock the door behind them.

"We're really going, huh?" he had asked Alfred as he backed away from the stairwell's door. Alfred nodded jadedly.

"Yup."

All the Marines had ran to the helicopter, leaving Alfred, Kean, Bauer, and a master sergeant named Valdez the last ones to remain on the roof.

Kean looked over Alfred quickly, and once realizing he wasn't leaping to get a seat on the helicopter, suspiciously arched his brow. "Jones, get on the helicopter _now_."

Alfred, weary and beaten, decided not to argue this time. He boarded _Swift 2-2_ and took one last look at Saigon, the dilapidated and defeated city that was once the blooming crown of their jovial endeavors. The city of sinners, the night life and the green neon, was gone.

They were the last Americans to leave the country, the last to dispatch from this fourteen-year long quarrel. It was in this moment the tattered red curtain finally fell on the worn stage. It was all over.

Alfred tore his gaze away quickly, impersonally. This place was nothing to him now.

He clambered into the crowded Sea Knight, situating himself close to the exit and buckled himself in. Kean and Bauer had begun to approach as Master Sergeant Valdez stayed behind to snap a picture of the helicopter from its tail. Once Kean and Bauer boarded, the helicopter began to creep into a lift, beginning its measured ascent from the roof. Valdez quickly made to step off the edge, looking to finish with a smooth boarding, but instead lost his footing and nearly fell off the roof completely. Alfred and another young man instinctively shot their arms out and grabbed at Valdez by the shoulders, hauling him away from open air as _Swift 2-2_ slipped passed the borders and into the sky. Shaken and bright-eyed, Valdez muttered a quick thanks and retreated towards the front, strapping himself in besides Kean.

The doors closed and the flurry the Sea Knight's blades had swept up was muffled to a dull pounce against the wind. Alfred felt a churning weightlessness in his gut as they breached the skies higher and higher, his ears popping and his head faint with the mounting altitude. The windows were tiny, misty with the morning, letting in grating streaks of pale light as the sun rose from the orange horizon. The Marines sitting closest to them peeked out, watching Saigon as it shrank below them.

Regardless of his curiosity, Alfred had had enough of Saigon for a lifetime. He leaned back and closed his eyes, reveling in the silence as a gentle calm swept through the small space, an unspoken appreciation that they had successfully lifted free from a city in ruins.

"Hey Major!" someone shouted over the sounds of the chopper. Alfred opened an eye tiredly and turned his head to face Bobby Frain—the boy who had shared his water jug—as he pretended to talk into an unhooked PRC 25 radio. "They want to know what kind of pizza you want in Manila!"

It was the last words to be spoken by an American Marine in Vietnam. Very anti-climactic, very unremarkable—but they all laughed the same; the tension of the past few hours came undone and a melodic serenity seeped through, loosening everyone's shoulders, relaxing their nerves, and drawing their laughs deep from within their bellies.

Alfred spirits finally began to lift, and even though his heart bore heavily in his chest, he couldn't help but be giddy over the fact that yes, they were out. Yes, Vietnam had finished. Yes, they were heading home.

* * *

**8: 30 A.M.**

They landed on the aircraft carrier USS _Okinawa_ in clear daylight, the sun a vibrant sheen in the cloudless skies instead of a shy slink among the sea. The waters sparkled as the light leapt and danced across the waves. It would have been beautiful to Alfred if he wasn't so tired.

As soon as the Sea Knight touched down with solid ground, a few Navy men approached the aircraft in long strides and demanded that the men hand over their weapons.

Some begrudgingly did so; others willingly threw down their weapons, happy to be rid of that burden. Alfred handed over his own pistols, grainy little pinpricks in comparison to some of these men's M-16s, but not a single gun was shown mercy as the men that welcomed them threw them off the side, sending them down into the water.

It was protocol. No one wanted to risk a discharge or an accident.

Alfred looked back along the large flight deck, unguarded around its wide borders, stretching out into long steely runways before dropping off to the choppy blue ocean. Alfred wrinkled his nose. He had to admit, he was never very fond of aircraft carriers; they were large and imposing, succeeding like no other ship in making him feel like one slip can send him sliding off the edge at any minute. As he looked along the distance, he could see men scrambling in a small huddle as they shoved at a Huey. The black helicopter teetered briefly before falling over on its side; the men broke into a swift run as they drove the hulking body over the side of the deck, sending it tumbling into the ocean. They did this for about two more helicopters before heading back to their previous positions.

"They've been dropping the damned things off the side since the evacuation began," Kean explained next to Alfred's ear as he hopped away from _Swift 2-2_. "It was to make room on all the ships."

"I figured," Alfred muttered.

Even if it was for practicality, he still couldn't help the bitter tug in his gut as he watched the beautiful helicopters being plunged into the sea, gathering water as the waves curled and embraced its hollowed frame before pulling it down to the inky depths below, swallowed by the ferocious beast, gone from their world forever.

"Well, I don't know about you, captain…" Kean rubbed his eyes. "…but I'm about ready to keel over."

Alfred inclined to agree with him immediately. The entire deck was a complete mess, the very air made Alfred exhausted. The mob was enormous, lumping worn-out Americans together with the appreciative Vietnamese they had managed to rescue, cluttered in large clots and unpleasant uproars. The howl of the ship's engine, the sway of the vessel, and the scrambling Navy men did nothing for the headache that had begun to blossom behind Alfred's eyes, spreading to the base of his skull in a dull twinge.

He followed Kean away from the large runway, careful not to tread over the fumbling children as they ran in restricted circles around the deck and played, bored and fussy from hours of standing and being stuffed into helicopters.

They passed through processing without so trouble and were hurriedly guided away from the growing mob as more and more men poured out from the bowels of the great ship and into the hectic throng above them.

"Well," Kean grumbled, straightening his collar. "I'm gonna go hit the hay now…"

"Wait." Alfred grabbed his wrist. "Thank you, Kean. I don't think I've said it yet, but… Thanks for getting us out of there."

Kean looked back at Alfred, eyes wide with mild surprise. He seemed so tired, yet to Alfred, an unmistakable ambition burned within him. It was the very thing that made him a leader, and the very thing that kept them all alive in Saigon. Kean was the rock that Alfred had built his crumbling faith upon, the glue that held them all in place, and the voice that guided them through those dark hours. Alfred would forever be grateful to him.

"Well, you're welcome, Jones." Kean gave him a tiny unsure smile, still rather surprised. He turned his wrist over in Alfred's grip and caught his hand in a firm grasp, shaking it with hearty vigor. "But I was only doing my job."

Before Alfred could get another word in, Kean had withdrawn his hand and turned away on his heel, ambling down the corridor with a staunch strut, the simple man of the unassuming hour. Alfred grinned after him, shifting his weight between his sore feet as he started to make his way down the opposite direction, his feet dragging against the cool floor, whispering along the walls in shuffling beats. He had just begun to make a turn down to the western wing when he was stopped by a voice coming from behind his shoulder.

"Alfred?"

His heart stopped, his breath leapt. He knew exactly who it was before he turned around.

"_Arthur_."

The man strode quickly down the hall before he flew into Alfred's chest, wrapping his arms around his shoulders and holding him tightly, pressing him close and nearly knocking Alfred off his feet with the sudden impact. It was something so uncharacteristic of Arthur Kirkland—always the stoic and prudent gentleman of his own proud esteem—that Alfred nearly laughed when he had thrown his arms around him so willingly.

Granted, down this corridor there was hardly anyone around to witness such a surprising event, but regardless, it was something extraordinary for Arthur to be so expressive in public. Alfred, never one to miss an opportunity, took to Arthur's affection and held him, squeezing him and feeling him as he did the morning he left once again for Vietnam. It had been months since he had last seen Arthur, and seeing him again, hearing the uneven slant of his breath and the thump of his heart against his chest, it was as if he never left.

Arthur had his head buried in the crook of Alfred's shoulder, his arms wound so tightly around his neck that his hands had balled into fists.

"You had me worried sick," Arthur muttered into the cloth of his rumpled uniform, his voice wavering slightly. "They told me you'd be here on the first flight of helicopters, but you never came. I waited and waited, and you _weren't here_."

Arthur pulled away and looked up at Alfred, his soft features abruptly twisting. He shoved Alfred's shoulder roughly.

"Where the _hell_ were you, you bloody _idiot_?!"

Alfred rushed to defend himself, flummoxed but slightly amused by Arthur's change of mood. "Artie—"

"You had me up and about worrying like some bleeding halfwit—!"

"Artie, I—"

"And what made it worse was that these gits kept going around last night saying that everyone had been evacuated and _you_—you _fucking sod_—"

"Arthur—"

"—There was absolutely _no_ word of your arrival _anywhere_ on any _goddamn ship_—Over sixty of you were still missing, yet they stopped sending in helicopters, and I thought—!" Arthur's breath hitched, his voice cracked. He gulped in a shaky breath before swallowing heavily, muttering tremulously, "I… I thought I lost you…"

Arthur was many things—one of these main things being an unflatteringly proud man, and Alfred, who loved him unconditionally, knew this. It's why he chose now not to tease Arthur about this—_Of course_ _Arthur wouldn't have lost him, how stupid could he be to think the Viet Cong could take down someone as kickass as him?_

Because Alfred had been afraid, too. He had been utterly terrified at Saigon, and seeing Arthur made his heart jump to his throat. His nerves had messily rewired themselves and he was still in shock from knowing the war had ended. He honestly didn't know whether to laugh or cry.

So instead, he gathered Arthur into his arms again, relishing in the reassuring warmth of his weight as he pressed him against his chest, burying his face into his Royal Navy uniform and breathing in the scent of lemon tea and salty sea air with touches of Scotch from where he must have drunk a few glasses to ease his nerves and his distinctive cologne, comforting and warm. Alfred closed his eyes and lost himself in it. With Arthur, he was safe. With Arthur, he was _home_.

"I'm right here, Arthur," he whispered into his hair, fresh with ocean breeze. "You didn't lose me."

Arthur feebly smacked his back before wrapping his arms around him again. "Damn tosser."

Alfred let out a watery laugh before quickly taking Arthur's face in his hands and pressing their lips together. It had been so long since they'd been together, so long since Alfred could feel like himself, so long since he had felt so relieved and so protected.

After unsuccessfully attempting to pull away and convince Alfred that here was not the place to showcase such affection, Arthur finally relented and relaxed into the embrace, soon kissing Alfred with equal fervor and intensity. Alfred kissed him hard, he kissed him long. It was how Arthur had kissed him the morning Alfred told him that he was leaving for Vietnam, hopefully for the last time. It wasn't something Arthur hadn't heard before, and that early morning kiss had been bitter and morose; it had been the token of a goodbye. _This_ kiss was the spark of something new, but the death of something old. Alfred's hands shook and he wasn't laughing. Something in him had changed, and Vietnam was to blame.

He had caught Arthur in such a bruising kiss for two reasons:

One: He was the love of his life. He was the reason Alfred had returned home, the reason why Alfred had faith and hope even when he and his men bled out in humid jungles, even when their brains splattered against bombed-out office buildings and abandoned movie theaters, even when they spent miserable nights under the tattered covers of the burnt-out slums. Arthur was the light Alfred saw at the end of a very dark tunnel, he was the fire in his ambition and has been since the Second World War, since his Empire had crumbled, leaving him a humbled man, a man with more to live for than a name. Alfred loved him as he loved no one.

Two: He didn't want Arthur to see his eyes. He didn't want Arthur to see him cry.

* * *

Aaand there you go. DAMN.

So let's talk about **Ambassador Martin** just a little bit more. So he was in the American Embassy, patiently waiting for the designated helicopter **_Lady Ace 09_** to come and rescue him, along with a group of men that have gone unnamed in all of my research. The only man I was able to find a name for was the man that had told him, "It's time to go." According to Kean himself, that was a statement meant for the history books. The man that uttered these said historic words is named **Kenneth Moorefield**, who was an adviser to the Army of the Republic of Vietnam in 1967 and 1968 before returning to Vietnam as assistant ambassador from 1973 until the very end of the war.

Martin really _did_ **carry the American flag on his ride out of Vietnam**; I'm still not sure where he got it from, but he got it from somewhere, so I just opted for those little decorative ones that serve for aesthetic purposes. It could've been a big ass flag for all I know.

Now, onto other things. So with Kean in command, **the Marines guarding the gates of the Embassy had to withdraw in a big semi-circle** (kinda dramatic and very intense) just so that no one could take advantage when their backs were turned. So yes, there _were_ Marines stationed behind the doors to actually drag these Marines in from the outside. Very simple, but also pretty dangerous.

T**he metal drop at the Embassy doors stalled half-way down the doors**, and since it didn't seem like they could just lollygag and fix it, their only option was to run away. They cut the power on the elevators and locked every entrance, but even _that_ wasn't enough to keep people out. By the morning, looters had taken out all this stuff from the Embassy while the American Marines were still waiting for their helicopter.

**Master Sergeant Juan J. Valdez** almost fell off the roof to his death because he was lagging behind while taking two pictures of the CH-46 that was rescuing them called _**Swift 2-2**_. He was the last American on Vietnamese soil.

Whenever I feel lost, **Sergeant Bobby Frain** comes to me, speaking words of wisdom: **"Hey, Major, they want to know what kind of pizza you want in Manila!"** In order to loosen up the tension, the young sergeant pretended to talk into an unplugged radio and yelled these words over the chopper, being the final words of the Vietnam War. Kinda fitting, I think.

**The Battle of Huế **(Honestly, I don't think that's the right accent, but I'm making do) was one of the bloodiest and longest battles during the Vietnam War, taking place in the year 1968 and lasting from January 30 to March 3. Huế was a city in South Vietnam and was a base for United States Navy supply boats. It _should_ have been heavily fortified, but for whatever reason the Southern Vietnamese and U.S. forces were completely unprepared for any sort of attack the Northerners might have inflicted, and soon enough the city of Huế was placed under Northern rule. Eventually the American Marines drove them out, but by the time the city was completely destroyed and over 5,000 civilians were killed. The North Vietnamese had about 2,400 to 8,000 dead while the Americans and Southern Vietnamese lost 668 and 3,707 were injured. The tremendous losses negatively affected the American public's perception on the war and political support for it began to fade.

**Lien Chung** is the name I decided to give to the personification of Vietnam. She has no actual name, so until Himaruya gives her one, Lien Chung it will be. Vietnam is usually depicted with the flag of the Northern Vietnamese, which is why I decided to put her with them. Fans speculate that she had a sibling representing Southern Vietnam, however after the annexation of Saigon, they may have possibly died. Now THAT would be an interesting story.

Did you like the little dose of USUK I put in there? Hopefully, because I have never written for my OTP before! I love these two, to be honest, and I just love their dynamic together as a couple because Arthur is grouchy and cynical about everything but loves Alfred so much and Alfred is this annoying ball of energy who loves everything especially Arthur and aaagggh! Cute. I could literally write a thirteen-page essay detailing how much I think these two belong together, but I'll just leave it to my fics for now. Now in this story from here on out, all the USUK. All the love.

So that's it for today, hope those of you who read it enjoyed it, and I hope to have the next chapter up before I head back to school. Thanks, guys!


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